Undead and Undermined

Chapter TWENTY-THREE



“Whoa.” I had seen many strange things in the last three years, including my own tombstone (“Our Sweetheart, Only Resting” . . . barf), but nothing came close to this.

The largest and most luxurious RV I had ever seen was majestically rolling into the (un)loading area. It was cream with brown trim, and the windows all looked shiny clean and six feet high. Then the doors underneath—where, if it were a Greyhound bus, all the luggage would be stored—the doors underneath smoothly rolled up revealing . . . a red two-seater Ferrari. Sinclair’s Ferrari!

“What the—”

The front door to the RV burst open and I half expected a dozen clowns to pour out. But Tina was framed in the doorway. She’d changed into white leggings (show-off bitch . . . if I’d tried white leggings my thighs would look like Christmas hams) and a sky blue turtleneck. She looked like a ski bunny. Who could kill you and eat you and hide the body where no one would ever, ever find it. “My queen! I’m so relieved you’re safe!”

Then, in an unprecedented act, she was shoved aside and skinned her nose on the pavement as Sinclair galloped joyfully toward me. He hugged me so hard he knocked me off my feet. I knew Tina, being solicitously helped off the pavement by Marc, would forgive her king’s unchivalrous action—she looked positively delighted to have scraped knees and palms and nose, which rapidly healed even as I stared.

“I’m happy to nnngggg—” I’ve mentioned I didn’t need much oxygen, right? And it was a good thing, too. Sinclair was busily smooshing my poor lungs into undead airless lumps in the center of my chest. “Ooooommmmgggggrrrrggglll . . . ack!”

“My love, my love, I am so grateful you are safe.” Sinclair said all this into my neck and I felt a sharp pain as he bit me.

That was rare—my husband was normally the epitome of control and only showed his teeth in the bedroom. Or to random rapists. (It was wrong that I liked being rapist bait and then my hubby and I both fed on said bait, right?) That uncontrolled bite told me everything I needed to know about his worry, and his love.

“Aw, come on,” I said.

“Never scare me like that again. Never never never.”

“You’re too lame and uptight to be a widower, though no worrieth.” Oh, dammit. The smell of my own blood, the heat of our excitement, had made my fangs pop, too. Stupid vampire lisp.

Sinclair laughed into my neck, a deep, joy-filled bellow. Then he was dragging me past Marc and Tina—

“Hey, guys, thanks for—”

“Whoops, there they go, off to compete yet again in the Sexual Olympics.” Marc shook his head. “New record.”

—and up the steps of the super RV, past Nick, who was waving at us from the wheel—

“—riding to my rescue—”

—past the gorgeous furniture and accessories, this thing was a mansion on eight wheels! Or twelve . . . How many did RVs have?

“—and picking me up!” I hollered before we were in the bedroom and Sinclair kicked the door closed. Which was fine with me. If you were wondering.